The security guard was not having a good night. He clutched a clipboard that looked ready to snap at any second. He was red-faced, angry or ashamed, while the man in the silk suit had that above-it-all actor’s gaze, the nothing can ruffle me, sweet stuff billing that had gone out decades ago, once men on celluloid had to pretend to act human. I didn’t like him on sight. But then, I wouldn’t have liked anyone at that party very much—including Ellen.

“Karen,” I said, “with catering.”

“Company name?” He glared at the keyboard. In the distance, Junior’s taillights rounded a corner and disappeared. I cursed under my breath.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to explain to Mr. Klein why the specialty cake he ordered—”

The actor stepped forward and peered at my face in the car. “Oh, Karen, I didn’t recognize you!”

The security guard looked over, skeptical. I matched his expression. “You know her, Mr. Wexler?”

“Sure do,” Wexler said, leaning an arm on my car window. He leaned forward and grinned into my face, showing all his teeth. Wexler wasn’t particularly tall—actors never are—and his face was very handsome, every feature a hair too large, including his oversized upper body and rib cage. But never quite handsome enough to be the lead—even among Hollywood, that sort of handsome was rare, and it made me wonder, for a moment, if Jackal had missed his calling. “Good to see you, Karen. Say, can I catch a ride up?”

“Sure,” I said, looking from him to the security guard, whose face wasn’t so much incredulous as pitying: You sure you want this asshole in your car?

I peered into the half-darkness. Through the carefully tangled ivy and rotting silvery palms, I could see the red glow of taillights and, far ahead, sweeping purple and gold spotlights. Far off, I could hear a woman shriek with glee. I waited until Wexler had walked around to the passenger-side door of my car, and then I gunned it, shooting straight past them both and lurching forward into the boneyard. Behind me, I thought I heard the security guard laughing.

Hollywood Forever Cemetery shared a plot of land with the studio, a shortsighted mistake by the undertakers of the early 1900s, who’d assumed the newfangled movie biz would fold in months. It didn’t take long before the stars hadn’t been content with their half of the land: they’d taken Hollywood, and then started to overtake the cemetery, too. A century later, the two still rubbed shoulders, two ghouls locked together in eternity. It was fitting: you couldn’t see the celestial stars in Los Angeles anymore, but you could find the earthly ones spackling the sidewalks or bricked up in marble.